


Bitches in Heat

by Monkess



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Dogs, F/M, Fluff, Rumbelle Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkess/pseuds/Monkess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Rumbelle Secret Santa: For Cakeinabasket who prompted "Sex Scrapbook. Pie filling. Leashes." Because I know I couldn't have written credibly smut involving leashes or pie filling, I had to take a long alternate route to get to the finishing line. And it involves two West Highland Terriers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cakeinabasket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cakeinabasket/gifts).



 

Belle French had a bookshop in one of the least distinguished parts of Storybrooke, on the corner of the East Central high street and a narrow alley. East Central, was by no means the most reputable area of Storybrooke City, nor was it a haven for a lot of readers either. The whole neighbourhood was full of cheap residential areas, from where every morning people would flock to the local train or bus station to commute to work elsewhere, and they would return home again in the evening, rushing past the shops situated around the high street on their way homes, rarely attracted by the shops.

Belle's best days for customers were the weekends, so in effect she was chained to the bookshop seven days a week, from Monday to Sunday. The weekdays were not too bad, because she didn't have many customers. At least she owned the shop, not needing to rent it, since she'd inherited the premises from her father at the occasion of his death. Maurice French had kept a flower shop there, until he'd suffered a heart-attack. Belle had kept the flower shop closed one whole summer after her father's passing, while she'd toured Italy and France, and when she'd returned, she'd decided to turn the place into a bookshop.

The place wasn't too large. She wanted to keep a direct view to the street outside from the counter, so she hadn't halved or blocked the interior with any tall shelves. She could stride across the floor in seven or eight steps. In the flower shop days, there had been enough space for a work desk and the counter, in addition to the displays of ready-made arrangements and two glass cabinets with cut flowers. There was the back room, through which her inventory came, and a tiny bathroom. There was also the safe, where she kept the money, and stored the few electronic book devices she sold.

Now the tiny bookshop was where she spent most of her time, but never quite alone, for she always had the solace that the presence of her dog brought. While Belle would spend the day by the counter reading, writing, or surfing the internet, or going about the shop tidying the place, the dog would usually stay close to Belle, follow her around, or sit contentedly at the shop window, so still that the people who walked by would think the dog was a statue, and some pass-bys glancing at the shop window were even occasionally were snapped to alertness when they realised the dog was alive.

When her father had died, Belle's aunt had been so concerned with her niece's solitary manners, her Aunt had then given Belle one of the puppies from a litter of her own well-adored, prize-winning West Highland Terrier. The puppy's kennel name was Marsh Cardamom Tiny Tumbler, and he was brother to Marsh Cardamom Tiny Blessing, Marsh Cardamom Tiny Queen and Marsh Cardamom Tiny Joy.

Belle's aunt had planned that the prize-winning dog's son would excite Belle to go out more often, and even perhaps meet people in dog parks or at dog shows, or dog agility training courses. Belle had guessed so from the beginning, but she'd taken the dog in anyway and called him Whiskey.

Whiskey did go to dog shows, but only when he was presented there by Belle's aunt or her daughter (they were both mad about dogs, but Belle decided not to judge them about it, for she herself was more than a bit mad about books, and far more so than her relatives with their dogs.) Belle thought the whole thing about dog shows a bit ludicrous, but he admitted that it did Whiskey good to spend time with other dogs. Belle herself was not so keen on learning how to walk around in circles in a cute dress while some strangers judged her dog by the way he walked.

Then the matter of Whiskey's fabulous life in the aristocracy of the westies became to be a far more serious thing, and affecting Belle's life, when her Aunt had suddenly promised a friend of hers that Whiskey would father a litter of westie puppies with a dog that had arrived all the way from Sweden. At first Belle had thought the idea amusing, and so she had been delighted in setting up the dogs together, yet afterwards the thought that her darling little Whiskey had children he didn't see often made Belle feel a bit melancholy for a little while.

Belle had started to wonder if she, at almost thirty at the time, would ever have children herself. She was aware she was pretty enough to attract someone for the mechanics of making babies. She'd noticed often enough that she was the object of strangers' appraising gazes, but that is all the gazes always remained. She made pleasant conversation about the weather, of current affairs and such, to the people who stayed to talk with her at her shop, or to the people she met in the dog park or at the dog shows, but nothing ever seemed to quite click. She sometimes longed for a romance, but the honest, open and hard-working people of East Central Storybrooke city didn't have anyone amongst them that would have interest in.

Belle was sometimes full of unsolvable and pent-up loneliness. One night, on a Friday after work, she stared at the first baby photographs of Whiskey's puppies. A bit tipsy with whiskey herself, she printed them all out and made a scrapbook with the photographs. Saturday morning she woke up feeling a bit better, and even a little happy that Whiskey had fathered such a lot of beautiful babies.

”Perhaps this is enough babies for the both of us. I'm thirty-one, probably set up to be a spinster for the rest of my life with my gorgeous little bookshop,” - Belle whispered - ”but at least you have eight darling sons and daughters out there in the wild world.” Then she fell asleep again with Whiskey's head in her lap.

 

Business was relatively blooming one month before Christmas. Belle had stocked her shop and the window with an assortment of exquisite hand-made Christmas cards to attract customers, and she had put a little notice on the door promising hot chocolate with every book purchase. She'd decided to extend her opening hours in the evenings until Christmas by one hour more, and was glad her scheme was paying itself back, judging by the figures.

Belle spent time at the shop a little longer especially one night when she went over the receipts of the day's purchases until she realised it was already nine o'clock, and Whiskey had started to whimper with his need to get out for a wee.

”Yes, darling, I am almost done,” Belle told Whiskey, and then set aside the receipts she hadn't managed to go through yet. She locked all the money in a cash box and hid it in a safe in the back room before locking up the shop, attaching Whiskey's leash to his collar, and leaving the shop to go out in the dark.

Belle felt trepidation with how dark and dreary a late night in late November was. There were not too many people on the high street, everyone sensible having been dispelled indoors by the cold wind battering her through her wool coat. Belle persisted on with Whiskey as they made their way to the nearest dog park, almost thirty minutes' walk away from the shop. If Belle could afford a car, a driver's license, car insurance, or a parking spot, she may have taken the car to the dog park that late at night, but she had none of those things, and so she was forced to walk. She longed for a thicker coat and a warmer hat to shelter her ears with from the howling cold winds, but she didn't wish to delay this a minute longer.

The side-streets and the residential areas were as forlorn as the high street had been. The trees had already lost their leaves and their skeletal arms swung in the wind, scratching each other. Belle started to glance at shadows in the side alleys, cursing herself for not having brought pepper spray for her safety. She always carried that when she took money to the bank, even though that trip took all of four minutes, and now she was out and about on such a hostile night with only a small white terrier for company. Whiskey was so friendly, it was more likely Belle herself would have to bite an attacker to save Whiskey from them, rather than the other way around.

Belle picked up the pace, to get to the dog park sooner, and to keep herself warm. Whiskey kept up merrily, happy to be out and running, occasionally marking his territory on the sides of trees and lamp posts, even if the weather was foul. Observing the dog, Belle thought she better dig out the dog's winter jumper, just in case the weather got colder soon.

At long last, when the trees and the fence and the gate of the dog park were in view, Belle felt so relieved that she skipped across the road with haste, and paid no attention to anything else except the slightly irrational desire to be ”safe” inside the park, even though it was no more or less safe than any other part of the area they'd just walked through.

The latch of the gate was stuck again, which was not an uncommon thing. While Belle held Whiskey's leash in one hand and tried to persuade the latch up with the other, she was all of a sudden abruptly disrupted by Whiskey dashing off out of the blue with a barely contained, small bark, almost pulling the leash out of Belle's grasp as he did. Belle cried out in surprise, an onomatopoeic yelp without any literal meaning, her heart racing as she thought of the forgotten pepper spray that sat underneath the counter of her shop thirty minutes away from her. In a short moment of adrenaline influenced frenzy, she looked for the violent assaulter of her imagination.

When Belle saw that Whiskey had been excited to run off to meet another West Highland Terrier, she felt instantly relieved, and gave such a sigh that it wholly inflated her. In the next second, the two almost identical terriers started running around each other, winding their leashes to an inevitable tangle.

”Whiskey!” Belle called at her own dog, and Whiskey halted.

”Flora,” some man, a man with an interesting accent called his own dog, but not with quite as much volume as Belle herself had used. Belle was still staring at the tangled mess of the leashes, and feeling embarrassed.

”I'm sorry, I didn't see you,” Belle started, even though she wasn't quite the culprit he was. Belle at least had had the excuse of working the latch when the dogs had started running.

”No, it's my fault. I do apologize. My mind was preoccupied,” the man said. He had such a stern, severe voice. Belle looked up from the dog to the man.

Belle herself was tiny in size. Many men were towering hulks compared to her, but this man was of a slighter build. There was something about his air though, that made his presence large. The tone of his voice, and the stare in his eyes, and his clothes. They weren't any late-night dog walker's gym slacks. He wore the kind of dark clothes that spoke two words: tailored and expensive.

Belle caught herself all of a sudden, finding herself staring at the man in stunned silence, gnawing her lower lip, while their two terriers were between them, sniffing each others' butts.

”Oh,” Belle said. ”We should separate these two.” She noticed the man was leaning slightly on a cane. The cane's handle was gilded. It would have been ostentatious and poor taste on someone else perhaps, but Belle had a feeling that this was not so with this man. But a cane was still a cane, and she thought she better leave the man standing while she solved this problem. ”If you'll just wait a moment, I can work this out,” Belle said, already starting on getting the leashes separated.

”Flora, sit,” the man said to her dog, and the dog obeyed without delay or hesitation. Whiskey sat too, making Belle feel a bit ashamed as she was reminded that Whiskey was not quite as well schooled as he ought to have been. Belle heard plenty about it from her Aunt.

The man leaned down just enough to unhook Flora's leash from her collar. The stranger then pulled his leash free of Belle and Whiskey, before re-attaching the leash to Flora's collar.

”Thank you, Flora,” the stranger told his dog, and the dog got back up on her feet. So did Whiskey too, after a glance at Belle. Belle rolled her eyes at Whiskey.

”The latch is stuck again,” Belle said, and reeled in the dog leash until it was short enough to not allow for another little dance between the terriers.

”Is this a common occurrence?” The stranger asked.

”Oh, yes, plenty enough,” Belle assured, and got back to fiddling with the gate, feeling the stranger's eyes on herself. ”I take it you're not from around here?”

”Indeed. I took residence just last weekend.”

”In which neighbourhood, if I may ask?”

”Blueberry Bay,” said the stranger. Belle nodded. Of course, it made sense. South from where they were, the Blueberry Bay area was a neat little haven in East Central, with grand houses by the sea. Surrounded by water on one side, a park on two others, it was a pleasant, though secluded. Belle had taken Whiskey there for long walks many times, especially in the summer, to see the amazing houses and the gorgeous streets and their lush gardens, and the Blueberry Bay Beach was Whiskey's favourite place for a swim on a hot summer day.

Of course, with the dark suit and that gilded cane, it was unlikely this man would have picked any other area to settle in, coming to East Storybrooke.

”It's so late, I thought I'd be the only one at the dog park at half ten,” Belle said, nervously trying to come up with small talk to fill the silence with while she fiddled with the gate. Just then, she managed the latch, and gave a victorious ”ha!” as she pulled it open. ”After you, mister,” Belle announced gladly.

A little calmer, the dogs were wagging their tails at each other very merrily, but both Belle and the strangers kept the westies still in their leashes even after the gate was closed.

”Whiskey is a vaccinated boy, he's three years old. He's never bitten anyone,” Belle stated.

”Flora is a lady. She can get a little feisty when she plays, but never so much I can't stop her.”

Belle smiled, glancing down at Flora. ”Yes, I noticed she seems to be a very well educated lady. And they do seem to be getting along famously. Do you think we'll be quite safe letting them loose?”

”I don't see why not,” said the stranger.

The dogs were let loose, and both westies seemed happier for it. They took off immediately to run across the park with each other, chasing each other playfully.

”I hadn't thought I'd meet anyone here this late,” Belle said, repeating herself from earlier. ”Not that I usually come here so late, but my shop kept me late tonight. And Whiskey deserved a fresh breath of air.”

There was silence as a reply. The two humans stood side by side in the dimly lit dog park, watching and guarding their terriers at play, neither letting their gaze stray too far from the dogs.

”I like coming out late to a park. There are fewer people, and some people aren't very good at holding their dogs in check,” the stranger said eventually.

”Yes, you really need to watch out for certain type,” Belle agreed. ”There was an alsatian here once I thought would kill Whiskey. Lots of people reported the owner though, and I heard police removed the dog to an animal shelter.”

”Do you find this park safe, in general?” The man asked.

”Oh yes. Although I admit, I try to come here when there are only few dogs. Small ones, preferably. There's this wonderful schnauzer that belongs to a dear old lady I see here fairly often, Whiskey's best friends with Sterling.”

”Stirling? As in Scotland?” The man asked. That's when Belle placed his accent, he must have been from Scotland.

Belle shook her head. ”No, Sterling as in meaning, excellent. Like sterling silver. She's a bit of a poet, this lady, she really has a way with words.”

They observed the dogs at play in a falling silence again.

”So you keep a shop?” The stranger asked.

”Yes, a book shop. It's on the East Central high street, on the corner of Dandelion Lane.”

”Interesting. Perhaps I'll have to pay a visit once I'm settled in,” the man said.

”I'm open until half past seven on weekdays until Christmas. Shop closes at three on weekends,” Belle said.

”Open seven days a week?” He asked.

”Yes.”

”And do you afford to keep a staff, with your bookshop?”

Belle grinned. ”No, it's just me.”

”And you have a dog. Do you have any time for anything besides selling books and taking Whiskey out to dog parks in the middle of the night?”

”It's working out fine. I don't have much else going on in my life, except books and Whiskey,” Belle replied, ”so I don't really feel like I'm missing out much. Besides, I can sleep late on weekday mornings, and surf the internet as much as I like. My boss isn't breathing down my neck about it.”

”Indeed,” the stranger said.

They watched the dogs play a little while longer, but then Whiskey suddenly tired out. He trotted over to Belle and she knew it was time to go home then.

”I think this is my cue to take him back where it's warm and dinner's served,” Belle said, and re-attached Whiskey's leash. ”It was nice meeting a fellow westie.”

”Do you need a ride?” The stranger asked suddenly.

”Oh, did you come here by car?” Belle asked. Then her eerie spider sense of muggers and murder started acting up again. ”But, uhm. No thanks. I'd much rather walk.”

”Than accept a ride from a stranger whose name you don't know. Yes, good point.”

Belle nodded. ”Something like that.”

”I am Mr Gold,” said the man, and extended his hand at her.

”Belle French,” she replied as she shook his hand, marvelling that he kept his first name a secret. How quaint and odd!

 

Belle was walking around her shop at noon, carrying and placing around new inventory that had arrived that morning. The daytime was fairly quiet, but she'd had a few seniors come in already to buy holiday cards and drink hot chocolate with her. Belle had the radio on, but she'd become weary of the Christmas jingles played on most stations, and so she'd switched to a pop station. With My Humps by The Black Eyed Peas blaring in the background, she moved around the shop, half-unconsciously swaying her hips to the music. Whiskey was lying down on his corduroy cushion at the window, half-asleep after their quick pre-noon power walk.

Belle danced about the back end of the shop, lost in thought, going back to retrieve the box of things she was going to take to the front of the shop and set at the shelves by the window. When she twirled around and looked up, she almost dropped the box and the Christmas cards when she saw that the stranger she'd met at the dog park three times now, Mr Gold, was standing outside at the window, regarding either her shop window or her. The swaying of hips ceased, and just then the song on the radio ended too, abruptly, and changed into another evergreen pop hit.

Belle turned around promptly and returned to her desk, where she dropped the box back where she'd picked it from, and killed the radio. She was aware her cheeks were feeling very hot and flushed. She picked her notebook to fan her face with it. She heard the door open, she took a breath, pretended to do something very urgent-like on her computer. She heard Whiskey wake up and give a yelp of excitement – Belle had trained Whiskey not to get too cosy with people in the shop, but Mr Gold must have smelled like Flora, even though the westie was not with him at this time. She heard Mr Gold greet Whiskey, and only after hearing the click of Mr Gold's cane across the floor of her shop did Belle look up, hoping the redness in her face had subsided by then.

”I hope I'm not disturbing,” Mr Gold said. It was hard to say which emotion he was displaying, if any.

”Oh not at all, the shop's open,” Belle said, grinning mostly out of embarrassment, but perhaps partially glad too, that he'd come out of his way to see her shop. ”I don't uhm, usually dance by the window. There's not that much traffic at this hour of the day.”

”Yes. I seem to have come at an... opportune moment,” Mr Gold said, flashing a brief smile, and Belle felt her cheeks flame up again. She turned about and went to the corner in the back where she had the water kettle.

”Let me get you a hot chocolate,” she said, and coughed.

”I thought it was complementary only with a purchase?” Mr Gold asked.

”Maybe I'm anticipating one?” Belle replied slyly and turned the kettle on. She had a tray of cheap Ikea mugs as well as paper cups, but now she took two white mugs to the table and reached for the chocolate powder.

”I'd be more partial to tea,” Mr Gold said, ”I'll even promise to make a purchase if I get tea instead.”

”Ah, I'll need to go get the tea bags from the back room,” Belle said, ”please don't steal off with anything, I'll be back in a sec.”

When Belle returned with her jar full of assorted tea bags, as well as honey, Mr Gold was still in the shop, having returned to the front part. He was regarding Whiskey with some interest.

”I have English Breakfast Tea, Earl Grey and Darjeeling,” Belle said.

”The darjeeling sounds fine, thank you.”

”Thinking of purchasing the dog?” Belle asked, narrowing her eyes a bit.

”No, this book should suffice,” Mr Gold said, lifting his hand up to reveal him holding a copy of _Dear Life_ by Alice Munro, who'd won the Nobel for literature recently.

”Have you read Munro before?” Belle asked, curious. She went to make the tea.

”No, and I don't have time to read long novels, but when they gave the Nobel to a short story author I thought I should return to fiction,” Mr Gold said. He crossed the room to Belle's shop counter and placed the book there.

There was the making of the two teas – for Belle was now in mind for some as well – and the little dance with the spoons and the honey, and the milk.

”I appreciate you coming to my shop and supporting the small entrepreneur,” Belle said, as they picked up their teas. ”Don't you have work today?”

”In fact, I am in the process of moving my workplace as well as my house. But today I thought I'd take the afternoon off.”

”Just to buy a book?” Belle asked, smiling playfully. She suddenly thought she'd have preferred that he'd come to see her, not just to buy a collection of short stories.

”No, actually I'd like to ask you for a favour,” Mr Gold said, sounding very serious.

”What sort of a favour?” Belle asked, her face contorting into a worried frown already.

Mr Gold glanced at Whiskey. ”The contract by which I have Flora demands she have puppies by next year.” He returned his serious face back to Belle. ”And truth be told, Flora doesn't like many other dogs.”

Belle nodded solemnly, thinking. She knew that some kennels and breeders didn't manage to sell all their puppies when this would have been timely, and they sold the puppies at smaller prices then, on contracts that would give the dog's next litter to the original kennel.

”I think I need to ask my aunt, whose dog Whiskey technically is, when it comes to these issues. She'd never speak to me if I didn't consult her first about it,” Belle said.

”Ah.” Mr Gold reached into the breast pocket inside his coat and pulled out a thrice-folded paper. ”Here's a copy of Flora's family tree, and health inspections, etcetera.”

Belle spared a cursory glanced at the papers and then took her tea back in her hands. ”I'll see Aunt next weekend, and I'll discuss it with her then. Can you wait for a response until Sunday?”

Mr Gold nodded, and he seemed a little less severe, perhaps a little relaxed now. ”Yes, of course.”

”Where's Flora now?”

”I left her home. She might have gotten excited with Whiskey if I brought her along.” Mr Gold sipped his tea. ”And I thought you'd be more favourable to my request if I didn't bring chaos to your premises.” He finished his tea swiftly after that.

Belle nodded, smiling into her tea mug before setting it away. ”Do you want anything else?” She read the barcode off the back of the book.

”Not at this time,” Mr Gold replied.

 

For the next weeks, Belle kept seeing Mr Gold, and Whiskey kept playing with Flora, at the dog park during the late hours of the evenings of the days counting down towards Christmas. After Belle's aunt gave her permission for Whiskey to father his third litter of puppies, it only became a matter of waiting for Flora's cycle, which just so happened to coincide with the Christmas holidays. It was four days before Christmas, a Friday morning, when Belle received a call from Mr Gold.

”I know it's very inconvenient, it's the holidays after all. We could wait another four months,” Mr Gold suggested.

”Oh, I don't have any plans for Christmas. I don't have a significant other, and my parents are dead. All I have lined up for next week is lunch on Christmas Day with my aunt,” Belle replied.

There was a pause on the line. ”Well, in that case. Do you want to pick a day? Or days?”

Belle laughed. ”I think we'll have to book the next week or so, and set them up together every other day. That's my aunt's veterinarian's suggestion anyways, apparently it prevents premature births, and it worked well with Whiskey's other litter.”

There was another pause. ”Other litter?”

”Are you getting jealous on Flora's behalf? Yes, Whiskey's had babies.”

”I suppose... that's fine.”

”I think it'll be difficult to come over tonight,” Belle said, ”it's the Friday before Christmas, I'll be swamped at the shop if it's anything like last year. I'll barely have time to take Whiskey out for a walk after work. Is tomorrow alright? I'll leave work at five.”

”I could make you dinner, if you comes straight over?”

Belle smiled at the phone. ”That sounds wonderful, thank you.”

”It's the least I can do. Dinner is on me for the next few days at least.”

 _At least_ , Belle thought. She had to admit it, she was already interested in the idea of there being more dinners.

”Is there anything you're allergic to? Or don't like?” Mr Gold asked her.

”Not really. I am not a picky eater.”

”I'll surprise you then. Until tomorrow.”

 

After what had felt an extraordinarily long time, it was Saturday evening before Christmas, and Belle had closed her shop. Before leaving though, she changed into a pretty dress, put on a smidgeon of make-up to hide the dark shadows underneath her eyes which had resulted from the pre-Christmas stress, and together with Whiskey they set off to Blueberry Bay. Mr Gold had offered to come pick them up with his car, but Belle had insisted on walking, to spare him the inconvenience. Besides, she wanted a breath of fresh air, and figured the same would do well for Whiskey.

Once she got into the posh neighbourhood, she used the map on her phone to navigate to Mr Gold's house. Although they'd known each other for a month now, and he'd visited her shop three times, she'd never been to his home before now. She found a beautiful, red Victorian-style house on a hillside, with a maple tree in the yard, which had already lost its leaves long ago, but the black bark was unmistakable.

The whole stretch of street around the house was all decked with samey sort of Christmas decoration – not a single house was out of line from the understated and classy lighting scheme of the neighbourhood. There were no garish blinking blue or red lights, no plastic snow men on the yards. Trees and bushes were adorned with simple and elegant, plain chains of warm white light. Mr Gold's house was the only exception, by not having garden lights at all. The exterior of the house was dark compared to the adjacent estates.

Belle walked past Mr Gold's car on the driveway, briefly inspected the garden hidden underneath half an inch of wet snow that would probably melt away the next day, and then she went to the door, which upon closer inspection did have a green wreath on the door at least. There was both a knocker and a doorbell and she felt confused with which to use. She opted for the buzzer, and then gazed nervously at the beautiful coloured glass panes that decorated the front door, and how when lights in the hallway were turned on, the light shone through the glass.

Mr Gold opened the door, looking relieved. Belle wondered if he'd been afraid she wouldn't show up. He looked much less severe without a coat on, but he was very formally attired again, with his royal blue collared shirt, a tie and a waistcoat. He had his sleeves rolled up though, and was wearing a black apron from his waist below.

”Welcome, please come in. I put Flora away for now, she's in the study.”

Belle and Whiskey followed Mr Gold inside. She ogled at all the old and beautiful things, the deeper she got into the house. It must have all been antiques. Of course, it made sense, he worked with antiques. Hence his interiors, and choice of house.

”This place looks lovely,” Belle commented. It reminded her of Italy. She'd enjoyed that month of her life, touring museums in Florence and wandering around the back alleys of Venice, trying to get away from the flocks of tourists. There was some kind of a timeless sense of beauty about the old cities in Italy, and also here, in Mr Gold's house. It made her feel at home.

”Do you like it?” He sounded surprised as he took her coat.

”Yes,” Belle replied, but then she had to direct her attention to change her shoes from her practical winter dog walking boots to light-weight pumps, and to Whiskey and unhooking his leash. She reminded herself she ought to tell Mr Gold of her summer in Europe, over dinner perhaps.

”Should we set the dogs together now? And eat dinner while we let them do their business?” Belle asked.

”Won't they need to be looked after? But I expect you know more about this than I do,” Mr Gold admitted.

”I don't know,” Belle replied, suddenly feeling a little nervous. ”Hardly.” It had been years since she had last visited a man's house, and the last time had been in Paris, and that had ended... interestingly. Belle shook her head at herself, because she was letting her imagination run off and get the better of her.

Whiskey started sniffing the carpet and headed instantly towards the further insides of Mr Gold's house, wagging his tail energetically.

”He's off to his conquest,” Belle commented, following the dog, and Mr Gold followed them both.

”Yes, that's the study,” Mr Gold replied, when Whiskey stopped his search in front a closed door. Flora barked, which excited Whiskey into barking as well. When the door was finally opened, both dogs started twirling about each other, tails wagging.

”Oh, what a lovely study!” Belle exclaimed, ignoring the dogs once she got a glance of the interiors. She walked in to take a closer look at the shelves with glass doors, hiding old and worn spines on one side of the room, and new and more modern on the other. The antique desk was also amazing, Belle was no expert with styles so she wouldn't have recognized biedermeier from chippendale, but she knew what she liked, and the desk she liked. The black laptop closed on top of it was not even crimping its style. And then she turned back to look at the shelves again. And the art nouveau – or was it deco? – lighting fixtures.

Mr Gold seemed to be terribly concerned still that Flora would bite Whiskey, since he kept staring at the flirting dogs with great apprehension. Belle had heard that Flora had previously been unimpressed with many other of her suitors.

”Mr Gold, it might be she gets nervous because you are,” Belle commented, her eyes straying across the walls at the rows and rows of beauty.

”I'm not nervous,” Mr Gold retorted.

Belle slowly turned at him, lifting an eyebrow. She cocked her head slightly and turned back to look at the desk.

”What style is this writing desk?”

”That's reproduction chippendale from 1915,” Mr Gold said. ”Or the frame at least is, the drawers have been replaced in 1995.”

”Oh? Does an antique stop being an antique after you repair it with new parts?” Belle asked, lightly running her finger across the polished dark wood.

Mr Gold didn't reply immediately. ”There are protected landmark buildings centuries old, that have been repaired so many times across the years, that few actual original parts, if any, still remain. Even so, if you ask the National Board of Antiquities, they'll say these buildings are from, say, from 1710. Provided, of course, the original design, materials and work methods are kept.”

Belle nodded, processing the reply. ”Interesting answer.”

”It'll also depend on the client, whether or not they accept the repaired parts. But it's best to be thorough with the history of each item. Oh, Miss French,” Mr Gold said, ”the dogs have already started.”

Belle glanced down at the two white terriers.

”Yes, that's what they do,” she said, without concern. ”I think you were in the middle of making dinner? Or is the apron on for fun?”

”Ah. Right.” Mr Gold turned around promptly, leaning on his cane, and darted off back into the hallways of the large house.

Belle spared another glance at the dogs, and, feeling certain that Flora was not about to kill Whiskey for what he was doing to her, left the study and closed the door behind herself.

There were no Christmas ornaments in the house, as Belle walked about leisurely, dismissing the kitchen where Mr Gold had retreated into, and took to another direction down the centre hall. There were still some unpacked boxes and a slight sense of disorganizing about the place. She wondered why would a single man move into such a large house. Perhaps it was to house all his stuff in?

She walked past the dining room, which she'd ignored on her way in. There was a light on. The crystals of the chandelier were in flat tear-drop shapes, which were slightly unusual. The dining table and chairs were old stuff, but the curtains were not. The table wasn't set, all the glasses and china were in glass cabinets.

Belle found herself back in the foyer, and found the water closet which she'd planned on finding on this solitary excursion in the first place. She wanted to check her face and hair, to pee and to wash her hands and, most importantly, peek into Mr Gold's toilet cabinet, because the man was so difficult to suss out, Belle figured an innocent amount of inspection wouldn't be out of order.

The downstairs toilet cabinet didn't contain anything out of the ordinary or suspicious or much anything either. The electric shaver presumed that Mr Gold had beard growth. There were nail clippers in the cabinet too, aftershave, cotton sticks, basic first-aid things like bandages and disinfectant. The hand-soap had a woodsy, piney scent.

Belle returned to the foyer and continued her tour of the house to the cluttered sitting room. There was an uninterrupted view from that end of the house to the kitchen where Mr Gold was busy at work. The sitting room furniture seemed to be a compromise between modern luxurious comfort and the vintage style of the rest of the furnishings and the house itself. There were more boxes in this room, and shelves, which were empty. A french door let out onto the porch and the deck in the back of the house.

Belle continued the tour into the great room between the kitchen and the cosy den-like sitting room. The room was in chaos more than the rest of the premises so far. It was simply a huge room full of things, and Belle felt she was more in a museum than someone's house, walking around it. Belle found the thought of Mr Gold not entertaining many guests more than likely. She went to the kitchen.

”Is everything here from your shop?” Belle asked, gesturing at the chaos she'd left behind.

”Yes,” he said. ”I'm afraid I didn't manage to clear more than the sitting room and the dining room before your arrival.”

Belle smiled, finding a seat in the breakfast book in the back of the kitchen. ”That's fine. If we were doing this at my place, it'd be a kitchenette, a sitting room, and eating dinner off trays.”

”Oh yes, you live above your shop?” Mr Gold asked.

”Indeed I do.”

He poured her a glass of wine and extended it to her.

”Why, thank you. What are we having for dinner?” Belle asked. ”Do you need help?”

”No, I've everything under control.”

”I could set the table, if you like?”

”No, you're my guest-”

”As your guest, who dislikes being idle, I'd love to help,” Belle insisted, getting herself up again. He then seemed more obliged to let her give him assistance.

 

The dinner tasted excellent. It was very conservative in textures and flavours, with green salad, potatoes, asparagus and hollandaise, and the most tender chicken flavoured with rosemary. So Belle was surprised when Mr Gold asked her if she'd like him to cook her Nepalese food the next time she and Whiskey came over.

”That sounds exciting!” She exclaimed.

”The flavours are strong and rich. It's settled then. Shall you come back Monday?”

”Actually, I was thinking tomorrow might be better, I need to get some grocery shopping done before Christmas, and if I don't go Monday I'm afraid I'll eat nothing over the holidays.”

”Except at your aunt's house, and mine,” Mr Gold pointed out. ”What are you having?”

Belle shrugged, putting down her cutlery after she'd finished the last piece of the chicken. She chewed and swallowed before answering.

”The quickest pasta I can make. Cooking for one isn't much fun, it gets tedious.”

”Indeed. Do you want to take a break before I get the dessert?”

”There's dessert?” Belle asked, a wide toothy grin taking over her face.

”Is that a yes or a no?” Mr Gold asked. Belle wasn't sure if he was intimidated, or teasing her, with that look on his face.

”I suppose we could wait a little...” Belle admitted. She reached for the wine to sip down the last of it. ”So, what happened to Margaret? You never told me.”

Mr Gold had once mentioned that Flora had originally been his girlfriend's dog, but after their break-up, the dog had wound up with him instead.

”Maggie was offered work in Japan. And we both were in the opinion that Flora wouldn't like living in a flat in Tokyo,” Mr Gold replied.

”Is that why you moved to Storybrooke?” Belle asked.

”No. I moved here because I wanted to live closer to my son. He's engaged to be married.”

”Ah. Congratulations must be in order then. Does he live in this area?”

”No, he has a place in the city.”

Belle nodded. He didn't want to ask how old Mr Gold's son was, because that would have brought up the age gap she was now suddenly very well aware of.

”I expect you'll be spending time this Christmas with him?” Belle asked, also with the intention of clearing their puppy-making schedule.

”Christmas Day dinner.” Mr Gold folded his fingers together. Belle wasn't sure if he was really looking forward to this Christmas dinner. Then again, she'd probably looked as morose if she'd just had a full course meal of deliciousness, and then asked if she was looking forward to spending a whole day being harangued by her aunt and cousins about the state of her lacklustre private life. Maybe it was the same for Mr Gold, who seemed to have his life arranged just about the same as her: just enough dog and work to fill the waking hours with.

”You seem thoughtful,” Mr Gold observed.

”Yes, I was just going over my Christmas plans. Also, I think I'm ready for dessert.”

She helped him clear the table. Gold ushered her out of the kitchen to let him finish creating the dessert, so Belle very quickly checked on the dogs in the study, where she found the two snuggled up together, half-asleep on the carpet. The dogs showed little interest in the human and continued napping while Belle returned to the dining room, to take out dessert knives and plates, as per her host's requests.

He returned from the kitchen soon, carrying a berry tart crowned with fresh slices of strawberries, and whole blackberries. Belle clapper her hands together in excitement.

”The filling is mashed blueberry, blackberry and strawberry,” Mr Gold said, placed the tart on the table, and gave Belle the honours.

”It's ridiculous, I've never been this excited about dessert,” Belle admitted, holding the knife in her hand, before cutting into the tart. ”It looks wonderful.”

And it tasted wonderful too. She had a second helping, and a slightly smaller third one.

”Do you want me to pack up the rest of it for you?” Mr Gold said.

Belle sighed. ”You probably shouldn't. It's too good. Like everything else. I'll never fit into my dresses again.”

”It's the least I could do for your assistance, Miss French,” Mr Gold said.

”I think I've already asked you to call me Belle a few times,” she retorted, giving him a playfully stern glare.

”Ah, but then I'd have to give you my name in return,” Mr Gold replied. He seemed amused.

”What are you, Rumplestiltskin?” Belle asked, then helped herself a thin slice of tart more.

”Mhm. Well, since you seem disinclined to be parted with the dessert, allow me to fetch you something to carry it home in.”

”It is getting sort of late. I should probably take Whiskey and me back home now. It's another five hours of work tomorrow!” Belle enjoyed the sweetness of the tart while Mr Gold retrieved her a plastic container to take home the tart with.

”Would you let me drive you home tonight? It's late and a Saturday. Streets might not be safe,” Mr Gold suggest, as he packed her a doggybag.

Belle wanted to decline, he would have been inconvenienced for her sake, and it wasn't such a long walk, and Whiskey needed to tinkle... but... Belle found she would have preferred to spend a few minutes longer in Mr Gold's company, and acquiesced to his worried request this time.

”Fine. This time I know where you live. And so does my aunt.” Belle cleaned her dessert plate and then helped her host clear the dining room table of all the remaining dishes. Belle retrieved Whiskey from the study, and went to change into her Sensible Shoes and to put her coat on.

Mr Gold joined her in the foyer a moment later. He gave Belle a studious look that alarmed her a little with its intensity.

”What is it?” Belle asked.

”You have a little filling stuck there,” Mr Gold said.

Belle laughed at herself, and then tried to wipe the corner of her mouth with her tongue.

”No, it's here,” said Mr Gold, and lifted his hand up to touch the upper corner of Belle's mouth. His thumb brushed her face, while the rest of his fingers rested suddenly against her throat, gently, gently.

Belle found her whole body suddenly reacting to his touch. Her spine shivered, and her lips parted in her sudden intake of breath. He looked alarmed then, as if worried he'd done some terrible breach of protocol? Belle searched Mr Gold's eyes with her own. For some reason she hadn't noticed before how very beautiful and expressive Mr Gold's eyes were, but now that she did, she didn't want to stop looking at them.

”I'm sorry if I alarmed you,” Mr Gold said softly, slowly removing his hand from underneath her chin. Belle felt the loss of his touch affect her so that she wanted to go in after the retreating hand. In effect, she slowly leaned closer to Mr Gold. Was he distraught by her? Did he find her sudden intrusion of his personal space unwelcome? His expression was unfathomable, until the frown on his forehead vanished, and then he was leaning closer to her as well. They met in the middle in a soft kiss.

Belle couldn't remember exactly how many months and years it had been since the last time she'd kissed or been kissed by a man. She remembered the last time had been lousy in any case. A complete antithesis to what she was currently experiencing. She wanted to suddenly not leave the house, she wanted to stay here, in this kiss that was making everything in her insides flutter. She lifted her hands to Mr Gold's shoulders for support, and invited him to kiss her deeper.

The sensations caused by the joining of their tongues fluttered and ebbed about her head, her heart, her spine, her groin. He tasted of the same berries she did, and of the tea he'd had with his slice. She could begin to feel her knees go weak, and was forced to depart her lips from his, but did so with a whimper of want.

They stared at each other in the foyer, both a little out of breath, eyes dark, lips parted and silent.

”I uhm, think you were going to drive me home,” Belle said weakly.

”Yes. Of course.”

Belle attached Whiskey's leash to his collar and departed the house first. She walked over to the passenger side of the car, a black Mercedes, which she'd given little attention to when she'd walked past it on her way in. Now she glanced in at the cream-coloured leather interior and wondered for a moment if it wouldn't be easier to go sit in the back.

She lifted Whiskey up and got on the passenger seat, her dog in her lap. Mr Gold helped her get the seatbelt on, while she managed with the dog. Whiskey wasn't too used to sitting in cars, and usually did so riding in the back, but Belle preferred to sit in front tonight. Besides, it was only a five or ten minute drive.

The streets were quiet and neither one of them spoke anything. Belle held on to Whiskey, listening to her own heart thump, while her eyes registered, not really seeing, the quiet suburbs and the Christmas lights. The drive was too short, Belle realised, when they suddenly already stopped in front of her shop, and she had to get out of the car. She couldn't even reach over to lean closer to Mr Gold to thank him for the wonderful kiss with another kiss, because she needed to get the damn terrier off her lap first.

But then Mr Gold got out of the car and circled around to open the door for her. He walked her to the door of the shop, even though it was just a couple of steps from the road, and he held Whiskey's leash for her while she fumbled around her purse looking for her keys. Once she managed to get the dog inside, Belle turned in the doorway.

”Thank you for the wonderful evening, Mr Gold,” she said.

”And thank you for the pleasure of your company, Miss French,” he replied.

”I'll see you tomorrow?”

”If you want to,” Mr Gold said, looking at her, wide-eyed. Belle realised she was expecting him to kiss her good night. It occurred to her that maybe he was doing the same.

Instead of saying yes, she leaned up against him for the second time that night and kissed him again, this time straying one hand into Mr Gold's hair. She'd been itching to try how soft it was.

”I'll be around the same time,” Belle whispered as she pulled back.

”Nepalese?” Mr Gold asked.

”Hm? Oh yes. I'm really looking forward to it.” Belle took a half-a-step back.

Mr Gold was about to go, and Belle was still reluctant to see him go, but he stopped short as he was turning, and returned to her instead, and gave her another kiss.

When Whiskey whinnied behind Belle, reality came crashing back. Whiskey needed a walk, and feeding, and she had a work day ahead of her. She reluctantly pulled away from Mr Gold and, after a final stray touch of fingers lingering in his hair, Belle thought she might manage this departure.

”I need to get Whiskey his dinner now.”

”Yes. Flora's waiting at home.”

They smiled, curious, tender, fragile expressions at each other, as Belle locked the shop door and watched Mr Gold get in his car and drive off. Only after that she could calm down properly, which lasted for about five minutes, until she felt her heart was ready to jump out of her chest for how hard it was beating.

 

The next day Belle had to bring a bigger bag on her shoulder when she walked to Mr Gold's house after work. She'd packed the scrapbook she'd made of Whiskey's other litter with her, because she'd decided she would want to talk about Whiskey and Flora's puppies once she got there. She knew she was going to be in for a little bit of heartbreak over Whiskey being a father again. And besides, Mr Gold had showed at least a casual interest in Whiskey's previous litter over the course of the dinner the previous night.

Sunday evening in the Storybrooke suburbs was as sedated and calm as ever. The snow she'd suspected would melt away soon had stuck to the ground after all, and there was a little bit of ice on the streets, making her have to stride with a bit more caution than the night before.

Belle had slept poorly, and opened shop late, but she didn't mind. Thoughts about Mr Gold and their shared kisses had kept her awake with longing, making her sigh into her pillow or up at the ceiling well into the night. She didn't mind being tired, she didn't mind anything now, for she was going back to him, and they would kiss, and there would be more of his amazing cooking, and definitely more kissing if it was up to her.

At the house, Mr Gold opened the door wearing much in the way of same sort of things he was in the previous night, except for the apron. ”Dinner is ready,” he said, and as soon as she had her coat off, they shared a soft kiss. Then Whiskey ran off with Flora, with his leash still attached to his collar, and Belle broke abruptly from the kiss in order to catch up with the terrier.

She returned to the foyer to change her shoes again, and to put Whiskey's leash away, and then Mr Gold directed her to the dining room for Sunday night dinner. The side of salad was already served on the plates and ready for eating, while the main course hid under the lid of a serving bowl. There was also a basket with pale flat bread wrapped inside white kitchen towels.

”I suggest you try the bread while it's warm,” Mr Gold asked her.

The flat bread was tasty and soft and warm and delicious, with unusual viscosity. ”What is this?”

”Naan bread.”

”You made this?” Belle asked, amazed.

”Tried to, it turned out a bit too soft.”

”No, it's great, I love it as it is.”

The main course was lamb with spinach, ginger and garlic sauce. All of it vanished in the course of the evening, while Belle told of her summer in Italy and France, and Mr Gold shed a little light into his personal life, and even shared his first name. Once the lamb was finished, it was time to clear the table, and Belle volunteered her help again.

”Because you were worried about dessert last night, I came up with a slightly more modest version tonight,” Mr Gold told her, and took out a jug from the fridge, ”Nepalese mango smoothie.”

”Ah,” Belle accepted a glass full of orange-coloured, creamy liquid. ”It tastes wonderful. How come you're such an excellent cook? Were you a chef in your previous life?”

She watched him rinse some of the dishes and put them in the machine.

”One needs hobbies. And I enjoy life's little luxuries.” He gave her a wry smile. ”It's been a while since I've had the chance to put my skills in use though.”

The dogs had ran off upstairs to rut in an empty spare bedroom. Belle checked up on them while Mr Gold finished tidying up in the kitchen. On her way back, Belle recalled that she'd brought her puppy book with her, and retrieved it from her bag in the foyer.

”I have some pictures of Whiskey's first litter here,” Belle announced.

”Would you like coffee or tea, to look them over with?” Mr Gold asked.

”Tea, please,” said Belle.

”How were they?” Mr Gold asked, retrieving tea cups.

”They looked very busy,” Belle replied, smiling. She was beginning to think it wouldn't be so bad to try some of that herself. Soon. Perhaps. Maybe. If there was an opportune moment. Her rational part of her brain was telling her maybe she should take more time to get to know Mr Gold better, but then she kept retorting back at herself that she'd spent a month regularly speaking with Mr Gold, and the most progress she'd made in that entire time to her way of knowing him was due to the kisses they'd shared the night before.

Belle watched him dreamily, her eyes soft, thinking about him. He was the kind of guy who really kept his cards close. She wondered if it would be poor relationship skills of her to now start talking about what did he want of her, what was their status, was this dating, or was this a dog breeding week special? But she thought that all of the talking sounded too heavy and serious. Maybe they'd have a proper talk after Christmas. The idea of letting this evolve on its own weight for a couple of days felt like the right thing to do.

Mr Gold certainly was guarded. Belle wasn't sure if he seemed pleased or concerned with the openly appraising look she was giving him. Belle wondered if she herself should act a bit more demurely, let him come to her? Dang but now that she was thinking and over-analysing everything, she started to feel insecure about herself. What was she doing? Was this alright? They barely knew each other!

”Sitting room?” Mr Gold suggested.

”Alright,” Belle replied nervously, nodding her head a little mechanically. She followed him past the room of carelessly arranged junk into the sitting room, which had cleared itself of clutter since the last she'd visited the place. Mr Gold had done some unpacking.

They sat together side by side, not quite touching. Belle opened the scrapbook across her lap.

”So this is the book of your canine's sexual conquests?” Mr Gold said, and Belle couldn't help but laugh. She liked how he spoke, he would sometimes choose absurdly quaint words.

”Yes, this is it. I thought I should extend it with Flora's puppies next year,” Belle said, once the laughing subsided.

”Look how cute they are. Tiny westies.” Belle ran her fingers over the baby pictures, sighing, feeling again how strangely forlorn she'd felt when the breeder had sent her the photographs.

”What's the matter?” Mr Gold asked. It was odd, Belle hadn't heard him sound properly sincere before, there was usually a guard of cynicism, sarcasm, humour or just plain distance in the things he said, but now, sounding concerned, he sounded warm, and more personal than ever before.

”I uh,” Belle started, glancing at him, and feeling her heart leap when their eyes met briefly. ”I just felt so sad when they were born. It just feels strange, you know, that Whiskey has these kids he rarely gets to meet.”

”But you made that book?” He asked.

”Yes, I was... fairly drunk at the time,” Belle said. ”It made me feel a bit better about the whole thing. I suppose I was jealous of Whiskey too, he can go about, make puppies, and he doesn't have to pay bills or groceries, or student loans.”

”So I take it you are interested making puppies as well?” Mr Gold asked, the sardonic humour there again, and Belle cringed at her poor choice of words.

”Well, I'm pushing thirty, and I live in a tiny flat above a tiny shop. I always figured I'd do a lot of things in life at some point later, but I just… feel like later's come and gone.”

”What sort of things?”

Belle shrugged again, leafing through the pictures of the baby puppies growing up gradually page by page.

”I wanted to go to New Zealand, and Mongolia, and Peru. And Iceland. I'd have to sell a lot more Christmas cards to achieve that.”

”You... want to go live abroad?” He asked gingerly, and Belle understood instantly what he meant.

”Oh, no! Just travel. See the world a bit. But at least I did get to spend a summer in Europe.” Belle sighed wistfully again. She felt Mr Gold shift closer to her, leaning to give a fond, soft kiss on her temple. She leaned into the crook of his arm and closed her eyes, wondering if it was a dream she was in now. He felt so right, he smelled so right. He was interesting and captivating, and she was looking forward to getting closer to him, step by step.

”Why did you kiss me last night?” Mr Gold asked.

”Because I wanted to. We were having a moment,” Belle replied decidedly. The memory of the moment summoned a smile back on her lips. ”Why did you kiss me back?”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. ”Perhaps it's because I'm a randy old man.”

”You're not that old,” Belle retorted, opening her eyes a little.

”I have a son your age,” he said.

”So, do you think thirty-somethings are too immature for your vintage?” Belle asked, tensing slightly, and ready to pull herself away from him.

”No, I'm... asking if it bothers you?”

She thought about it. ”No.” Belle concentrated on relaxing again. She glanced down at the puppy book. ”So, how prepared are you, with the prospect of having Flora's babies pooping and peeing all over your hardwood floors and silk carpets?”

”Looking forward to it, naturally.”

”And Flora's breeder owns the puppies?”

”That's the contract Maggie made with her,” Mr Gold confirmed. ”I've offered to buy Flora from her, but she's a westie-crazed madwoman obsessed with lineages.”

Belle laughed, thinking of her aunt.

”Well, Flora ended up with you, so I should think her puppies have a chance of getting into good homes as well,” Belle said assuringly.

Mr Gold replied with a disbelieving grunt. ”I'm hardly the ideal dog keeper.”

”But you've trained Flora well. And you seem like a good person.”

”How would you know?” He asked, tickling her tummy then with the tips of his fingers, ghost touches, and Belle giggled involuntarily. ”I may be a terrible person once you get to know me.”

”No!” Belle's stomach muscles jumped involuntarily, and Mr Gold relented. ”No,” Belle said softly, turning a little to look up at Mr Gold. ”I think you're guarded, and you hide behind a stern exterior, and sometimes humour. I think... you may pretend you're not nice, maybe, to certain people, when you don't want to be involved with them and want them to go away, but who doesn't do that, sometimes?”

Belle lifted her hand up and pressed it against his chest, over where his heart was. ”But I think you're a good person. You were concerned with a lone stranger in the dark. You look after your old girlfriend's dog, even after she abandoned it. You've moved house and city, just to be near your son. I don't think a bad person with a bad heart would do that sort of thing.”

Mr Gold regarded her gently, with a softness in his eyes that was suddenly betrayed by a glint of amusement. ”I'm glad to know you didn't kiss me just because you like my cooking.”

Belle blushed, thinking of how last night she'd stayed up eating the leftover berry tart. ”Only very indirectly because I like your cooking,” she admitted, smiling playfully. She rolled her lower lip between her teeth, softly biting into it, hesitantly expecting him to kiss her. Or would it be better if she kissed him instead?

Mr Gold's placed his hand slowly to Belle's waist, and she sensed his own disbelief of their situation in the slight shaking of his hand, in the nervous twitch of his fingers, even though otherwise he appeared almost too nonchalant about what they were doing, or almost certainly at least _thinking_ of doing. Belle took the nervous twitch as a good sign, and eased into the touch of his hand, as if he were pulling her closer to him, even though it was really her leaning closer.

They should have already kissed, Belle thought, but they were there just sitting, watching each other from close proximity like the night before, when Mr Gold's fingers on her throat had inspired the fire within her. He had such lovely eyes, but right then this wasn't the part of him she was most interested in. Belle's gaze briefly flickered over his lips, and she lifted an eyebrow questioningly. His eyes dodged her voiceless inquiry, while his hand smoothed its way up, past Belle's waist, and up her arm. Then his fingertips slid on the bare skin of her neck and she wanted to whimper with the sudden pleasure that contact brought her.

His hand continued to the back of her neck, and held her still, not forcefully, while he leaned down to kiss her. Belle was glad she was sitting this time. Being watched and touched by him was almost hypnotising, for how much care and time he'd taken just now. Her eyes fluttered close, as did his, and she lifted her own hand up to Mr Gold's neck, to touch that soft oh so soft hair that fell loose almost to his shoulder.

The kiss was soft and tentative at first, but it started to grow more intense, the longer they stayed in it. It would have been perfect, except for the fact that Belle had to tilt her face so high up, she was getting a nasty sensation of pain, even with Mr Gold's hand supporting her. She had to pull back, red-faced, flustered and breathless from the state he'd wound her into with mere, slow kissing (then again, she hadn't kissed anyone in years). She left one kiss on his lower lip, capturing it briefly, as a promise that she wasn't quite done yet with him.

”Ow. My neck hurts,” Belle whispered nervously, almost laughing at the awkwardness of it, and how she didn't remember any of this, how did it go? In her memory it should have gone effortlessly and not quite with the amount of strange self-consciousness she was feeling this night. “I'm too short,” she added.

He compensated by leaning further down for the next kiss, but this meant their bodies were in less contact now with each other, Belle no longer leaning against the steadily rise and fall of Mr Gold's chest, and then his neck began to ache too.

“What if...” Belle, slowly remembering again how to let go of prudence, pushed Mr Gold into the corner of the sofa, comfortable against a cushion, and then Belle followed him by straddling him, even though her dress hiked up. When she leaned forward and pressed against him, he let out such a sigh of pleasure, it made Belle shiver. And then they continued kissing, slowly, indulgently. Belle was certain she'd never participated in such a patient act as this was, but Mr Gold was in no hurry, and herself was feeling very drawn to the pace he'd set at the beginning.

Gradually, they sank deeper onto and into the sofa, until she was practically lying down on top of him, both of them getting slightly hotter and more bothered, but still no hands strayed underneath any items of clothing. Belle found the kissing alone already deliriously wonderful, but she was starting to feel she was resisting the temptation to grind her hips down against Mr Gold's growing appreciation of her.

Suddenly Belle felt something hairy settling on top of her half-exposed rear, and she almost shrieked in surprise. A terrier licked her button, which at least were hidden by partially sheer tights, and she rolled up, steadying herself on her knees, as she turned about to shoo Flora off of her.

“She licked me!” Belle hissed, pulling her dress down, and Mr Gold, trying hard as he was, seemed to be having trouble keeping his face straight. He swallowed, as he sat up, and managed to school his expression.

“Flora. Sit.” Mr Gold disentangled the rest of himself from Belle.

Whiskey sat there too, quietly, on the carpet, staring up at them with his big, lovely eyes. Belle reached down to scratch behind his ears. “Hey Whiskey, did you have a nice evening? It looks like you need to go out for a wee?”

“Mmh. Flora'll need her dinner too. I'll be right back,” Mr Gold said, and took off to the kitchen, Flora followed him after he snapped his fingers at her.

Belle was feeling a little cooled down by the time her host returned, finding her putting on her coat in the foyer. It was time to go home now. There would be work early in the morning, Whiskey needed an outing, and his dinner.

“I uhm. Thank you, I had a lovely night,” Belle managed.

“Let me drive you home?” Mr Gold asked.

“No, I need to walk Whiskey anyway, so it'll save me time if I don't. But thank you, so much, for offering.”

“Call me when you get home though? It is late, and it's dark out,” Mr Gold said, with such sincere worry, it made Belle's heart flutter, when he displayed tiny signs of his affection and caring.

“I'll text you,” she said, “don't want to get caught talking on the phone. I need to be ready for the last business day before Christmas, and it'll be a long one.”

“Speaking of tomorrow,” Mr Gold said, “are you coming then, or Tuesday?”

Belle smiled, knowing she would much prefer to come back Monday, right after she closed shop. “I'd hate to impose on your kitchen all week long,” she said shyly.

“You're closed for Tuesday, so I could come pick you at two tomorrow, after you're done?” Mr Gold asked.

Belle felt a blush on her face which possibly extended down to her neck, when she realised what he was asking. She grinned. “So, uhm, an adult sleepover?” She asked.

Mr Gold's outer exterior seemed to vanish then. He became suddenly a little paler, a little more serious.

“We don't have to do anything, if you don't want to. I thought it would be nice to have a little more time, next we meet.”

Belle grabbed his hands in hers and gave him a slow departing kiss. When it ended, she pulled herself closer to him. “Pick me up at seven,” Belle said a little breathlessly, then stumbled out the door with her bag and her dog. She walked down the driveway barely feeling anything but the thumping of her heart in her chest, grinning, certain that it was going to be the best Christmas ever.

 

Monday morning was the worst. Belle had slept little, again. Instead of resting, she'd lived through Sunday night's highlights in her imagination. She didn't regret it at half past midnight, but she thought very differently when she got out of bed at eight in the morning to be ready to open the shop by ten. Whiskey needed to get for a wee and a little bit of air, and breakfast. Belle needed breakfast too, although for her purposes that day, a half a pot of coffee would have to suffice.

There was no new inventory coming that day, but she was fairly certain she would be having customers more than usual for a Monday, thanks to how close to Christmas they were now. There was always that last-minute frenzy every year, in every shop, even in her tiny little shop.

Usually at this time of the year she was feeling blue, worried about the ever-diminishing sales of books against the high rising tide of electronic literature. That morning and day she didn't have much time to dwell on the prospects of her shop: When she wasn't serving customers, she was thinking about Mr Gold.

He called her twice, first at ten o'clock to ask her if she wanted something from the grocery store, and again in the afternoon to tell her that just in case if she wanted to stay the next night over too, he'd made sure they wouldn't run out of food at least. Belle grinned as she hung up the next call. Suddenly though, she recalled something she hadn't asked him about. For that, she closed the shop at the first opportune moment when she didn't have any customers just at that moment. She ran across the street and walked over to the kiosk.

The small shop owners and workers all pretty much knew each other out of a sense of community that came from simply having premises along the same stretch of road. Belle greeted the post-teenager, Jeffrey, who'd ended up employed there since his father's step-sister's uncle was the owner. His hair was always a bit mussed, and he was always wearing a tight wine-purple tee and skinny jeans. When he was alone in the kiosk, he listened to glam rock.

“Hi,” Jeffrey greeted Belle, “don't see you here often, here for a Christmas lottery coupon?”

Belle walked over to the counter, slowly looking around, searching. She find the things behind Jeffrey, the ones she was interested in.

“Jesus, why do you keep the condoms all the way there so people have to ask for them?” Belle asked.

“I needed to clear some space up front for the new choccy bars, see?” Jeffrey pointed at the Christmas-themed treats. “Anyhow, what'll you be having? The usual coffee?” Belle came there sometimes for coffee, and to buy a lottery coupon.

“No, I want... those,” she said, gesturing up and behind Jeffrey.

Jeffrey's relaxed face grew animated with sudden interest. “Oh. Making... Christmassy water balloons?”

“None of your business,” Belle said, managing to summon a smile, even though Jeffrey was irritating her rather than bringing out the joy in her.

“Yeah I guess this wouldn't have anything to do with the black Mercedes I saw you get out of the other night,” Jeffrey said, going to the condoms, “which brand?”

“Oh, you pick one,” said Belle, flustered.

“There's differences, you see,” Jeffrey said, slowing his speech down on purpose, he must have, to make this event last longer, “does he need an extra big one, for example? Or would you prefer a flavoured type?” The school dropout winked at Belle then, and her eyes threw daggers back at him. “You know, herpes is a serious condition.”

“I hope you're not referring to your own experience of it. The regular, normal, neutral type, thanks.” Belle then preferred to give her attention to her purse instead of Jeffrey's animated facial expressions.

After the transaction, she was ready to flee the store.

“Hey, Belle, I hope you have a really nice Christmas!” Jeffrey called after her, and he sounded sincere enough, so she wished him one back.

Belle hadn't really thought far enough ahead when she'd agreed to the time when Mr Gold would pick her up. She'd barely had time to close the shop, lock the electronics away and out of sight, take Whiskey for his walk and come back, by the time the black Mercedes was parked on the road in front of her shop. Belle let him in the shop with many apologies for her being late, and dashed upstairs to start packing an overnight bag. Finally and eventually, her estimate off by only twenty minutes, they left the shop.

Twelve hours of Belle's Monday had already passed by the time they reached Mr Gold's house, and although she was glad to be with him again, she was worried she might fall asleep soon.

It didn't take long for Mr Gold to notice that too. “Are you alright?” He asked, watching Belle hide a yawn after the commotion of reuniting their two eager dogs to their business. Belle had left her stayover bag and Whiskey's sleeping quilt in the foyer and followed him around the house to the kitchen, where the Monday night dinner waited.

“I need a coffee and I'll be fine,” Belle replied, stifling another yawn. Then she realised there was nothing cooking, nothing in the oven or on the stove “Where's dinner?”

Mr Gold laughed at that, measuring ground coffee into his espresso pot. “It's in the fridge.”

“I swear I'm not here just for the food,” Belle mumbled and got closer to give him a brief hug from behind. It was wonderful, just to hug. He had only a dress shirt on, no jackets and waistcoats and ties tonight. He also froze when she touched him, but only for a brief moment. Then Belle withdrew, to take a look at dinner.

“Oh, sushi!” She gasped, looking at the trays of neatly rolled rice, seaweed and other assorted contents. “Did you make these?”

“Yes, earlier in the day. I thought you mentioned you'd prefer to eat something light for a change.”

“Mmhm,” Belle admitted. She grabbed one and popped it into her mouth before retreating from the fridge.

“Take them out if you want to eat,” he said.

She munched through the tiny seaweedey wrap that had the faint aftertaste of radishes. “No, I want coffee first, and to explore your house a bit more,” Belle declared. “I haven't been upstairs yet, even though Whiskey has.”

“By all means, I'll give you the grand tour,” her host promised.

A moment later, cradling a hot cappuccino in her hands, Belle followed Mr Gold upstairs.

At the top of the stairs was a corridor. “Here's what'll be a spare guestroom some day,” he pointed at a door with its door flung open, where Whiskey was busy mounting Flora. The dogs didn't mind them walking past. “There's the stairs to the attic,” Mr Gold pointed nearby, “but it's only full of crates and dust at the moment.”

On the other side of the second floor were two more other rooms. One was locked, and Mr Gold fished a key out of his pocket to open it. Inside, in a smaller bedroom, were more crates. “I keep the fragile pieces here, in case Flora gets carried away.”

“Did you pick the wallpaper?” Belle asked.

“Good God, no,” Mr Gold said.

“So this must have been a little girl's room,” Belle said, inspecting the space with its pink floral walls, realising it must have been the little turret, which from outside seemed the most distinct and fanciful part of the architecture of the house. She could have died for a room like this when she was six and obsessed with fairytale princesses.

“And now it's antique porcelain room,” Mr Gold said rather dryly, and proceeded to show her the last room.

“What a nice bed. Is it an antique too?” Belle asked, hiding her smirk in her coffee cup.

It was a dark wood frame, in a dark wood panelled room, with heavy curtains drawn by the windows.

“Contemporary copy of Swedish rococo style, varnished dark, one of a kind finishing. The proper colour should be white, but I don't care for that,” Mr Gold said. “I hope it'll do?” He asked, raising his eyebrow at her.

“Is it more comfortable than your sofa downstairs?” Belle asked.

Mr Gold hesitated for a second, opening and closing his mouth before he came up with “Depends on the purpose, I suppose.”

Belle finished her coffee and set the cup aside on a night stand before sitting down on the edge of the bed to try the mattress.

“What do you have against white?” Belle asked. She leaned a little back on the bed. “White makes spaces feel bigger.”

Mr Gold stared at her, seeming a bit lost in his thoughts, and Belle wondered if he'd heard what she'd said.

“White doesn't really go with the rest of my décor, now does it?” he said with a snigger. “Would you like some company?”

“I thought this was the end line of the grand tour, so I figured I'm not in a hurry to leave,” Belle said, smiling wider than she had before. She leaned back up, and Mr Gold was giving her a hand to help her back on her feet, but she used that only to pull him back on the bed with her, on top of her, and his cane fell on the floor when he let go of it.

“Miss French,” he said, his voice low, leaning on all fours and hovering just above Belle so he wasn't crushing her, “I do wonder if this isn't a little too fast,” but the way he looked at her didn't seem as reproachful as his words did.

“Mr Gold,” Belle replied, slipping her arms around his body, and tugging him a little closer, “you invited me over. But of course, just stop me if I do something inappropriate,” she whispered, and lifted her head up to close the short gap between their lips.

“I meant, I thought we'd have dinner first,” Mr Gold replied, kissing the words onto her lips, while allowing her to tuck himself closer.

“Yes but the dogs are busy now,” Belle kissed him, “and I don't want Flora joining in,” she ran her hands down to his behind and back up again, towards his shoulders, “biting my butt in the middle of it this time,” Belle muttered, making half-unintelligent words against her Mr Gold's face.

Mr Gold pulled back and looked at her with a little bit of vexation as he leaned on his elbow and stared at her. “But I'd planned an hours-long seduction,” he said, and appeared genuinely gruff about it.

Belle bit her lower lip and tried to look apologetic while she wrapped her legs around him. “Maybe after my very short one?”

“Why the hurry?” Mr Gold still kept his distance, although he didn't seem to mind the invasion of the legs.

“Because I've been waiting for this for two days?”

“Hmm.” Mr Gold seemed thoughtful. “And you don't think I haven't waited?”

Belle smiled shyly and looked aside, focusing her gaze somewhere else instead of his perfectly lovely eyes. “I'm also a little nervous about this, as well as tired, and I'm afraid if I have dinner, I'll just fall asleep the moment my head hits a pillow.”

“Or I could just fuck you on the dining table so your head doesn't need to rest on a pillow,” Mr Gold said with a low voice that was almost a growl, and Belle's face went from a tint of pale rose to lobster red, partially from the surprise of what he'd just said, and from the sudden visual of them doing it on the dining table she'd sat at two nights in a row now.

“Gosh, what happened to slow seduction and romance,” Belle managed to say.

“I'm trying to acclimate myself to your preferred pace, Miss French,” he replied, with a wicked smile.

“I'm fond of the concept, but not with that... vocabulary,” Belle said.

Belle found her hands in his neck, in his hair, to pull him down and holding him close in a kiss that started as fairly coordinated, visited tongues, abandoned them, and went to the adoration and nipping of each lip between them in turn. Soon the kiss was nowhere near enough, and she started to rock her body against his, with slow, slow undulating movement, starting from pressing her breasts closer to his chest, then her stomach, and at last her hips. She didn't grind against him violently, but slowly and deliberately, delighting in the rare chance and opportunity to be so close to someone, and happy that someone was Mr Gold.

Giddy with feeling, Belle slipped her hands away from Mr Gold's hair and between them, to start unbuttoning her polka dot blouse. This distracted him from kissing her, and he pulled even further back when the garment revealed Belle's beige brasserie, adorned with a red satin bow between her breasts.

“Please let me get rid of my skirt and tights...” Belle said, blushing again under Mr Gold's appreciative gaze. He climbed away and off her, to start undressing himself while partially turning his attention to pull down the day cover from the bed, revealing chocolate brown satin sheets underneath. Belle appreciated the little details of elegant and simple ribbon embroidery on them, and tried to focus on that as she removed the most of her clothes.

The earlier moment of him pinning her to the bed was shortly after recreated in bed in between the lovely, smooth bedsheets.

“You look like a Christmas gift,” Mr Gold pointed out, his fingers running to the little red bows first on Belle's bra, and then further down, at the top of her panties.

“Do you like it?” Belle asked, and when her Mr Gold replied with a kiss and pressing his hard-on against her, she reached her hands underneath, behind her back to open the bra clasp.

“No wait,” Mr Gold whispered, putting one hand to her arm, “I'd like to, if you don't mind?”

Belle didn't. Smiling, she turned around on her belly. He sat up, running his hands from the cheeks of her butt up her tingling spine, playing with her shoulder blades and neck shortly before unhooking the bra.

Belle sat up, and eased her arms out of the bra before tossing it aside on the floor. In the next moment, Mr Gold was embracing her from behind, both his hands palming her breasts, while his face burrowed into her neck, in her hair. The movement of his palms, softly touching, circling, would have been enough to set Belle's groin on fire, but when his fingers pinched her nipples gently, she moaned with pleasure.

“Oh, Mr Gold,” she said, pressing herself closer to him, feeling him hard against her behind, “do you think we could do it like this?”

“What do you mean?” He asked, with a voice that had gone dark, low, husky.

“I mean, would you prefer to take me from behind?” Belle asked, wondering in the privacy of her mind, how had they fallen into the habit of speaking so very politely to each other that it persisted even through such an encounter as this. “I... I think I'd rather like the angle.”

“You would have liked the dinner table too, then, hm?” He whispered in her ear, almost crooning. “But I'd prefer to have you close,” he continued, massaging her breasts again, “look at you,” he sighed the word, “feel you.”

Shivering from the effect his voice had on her, Belle glanced at him over her shoulder. “And do you have condoms? Mine are downstairs.”

He retreated from her neck and crawled across the bed to the nightstand on the side of the window. “I have them right here. Are you ready?”

Belle stared at him hungrily, at the way his hard-on battled his boxers. “Oh yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Vulgarshudder who beta-read half of the fic at least. I wrote the rest two hours before the deadline in a panicky frenzy ahahahahaaa!!1 Anyhow, so any typoes or oddities can be blamed on me, and nothing on Vulgarshudder who is a wonderful fantastic person who I had the best weeks with in RSS IRC.
> 
> Also a large part of the credits of this fic is owed to two teachers and their Portuguese Water Dog, all three who contributed a lot to what goes on (they expect a Star Trek Next Generation makeover of this fic starring Worf and Captain Picard next week.) And also a long-haired Dachshund whose name really is Sterling, except in Finnish, helped a lot. Without them I wouldn't know anything about dogs.


	2. Chapter 2

Belle grabbed his hand and gently removed it, along with his fingers, away from between her thighs.

"That is lovely, darling, it really is, but I uh..." Belle almost said that she wanted him to fuck her, but that sounded a little bit rude. She was on her knees in the middle of the bed, sitting up, with her lovely host just behind her, having finished another lap of exploring her while he'd been laying kisses on her bared neck, the masses of her hair having been shoved away onto and across her other shoulder.

Belle reached with her hand behind her back to grasp what she wanted, "I want this," she said, a little out of breath.

He said nothing as he removed his lips from her skin. Belle heard the tear and rustle of the condom packet being opened. She felt suddenly a little dizzy, and she gave a nervous laugh. The blood up in her head was obviously flowing to a direction opposite from her brain. Even without either one of their hands between her legs, she could feel swollen and wet and ready.

She was going to lean down and get on all fours, but to her surprise he pulled her on his lap instead, while angling to get a little closer to her. There was a moment of awkward shuffling and looking to get all the limbs and joints angled properly for minimum discomfort, and muted oh-I'm-sorrys when someone's heel almost crushed someone else's testicles.

"Is this alright for you? Are you comfortable?" Mr Gold asked her and Belle accidentally shook her head instead of nodding, "sorry, I meant yes, this is.. good... this is..." Just then, Mr Gold grabbed Belle's hip with one hand and started pulling her closer, while his other hand guided him to his goal. She could feel herself being filled slowly, slooowly. When he at last was as deep as he could get, Belle manage to croak faintly, she wondered if he even heard her say "so nice," just then.

Belle remembered to start breathing again, and then moved herself slowly up, keeping her weight on her knees and partially on her hands, trying to find support for them.

"Why from this angle?" Mr Gold asked.

"It's a good angle," Belle replied, face contorted with concentration as she lowered herself slowly down again, and he raised himself just a little to meet her, kneeling underneath her he could hardly do any more than that, but it was enough to cause a wonderful sort of friction that made her quiver.

"Missionary just does..." Belle continued, rising up again, "nothing for me," and down, "mhmm."

He was taking the opportunity to bring his palms and clever fingers back to her breasts, and the sensation amplified the near-indecent lust burning through her.

But shortly, Belle started to feel the lack of practice burning in her thighs, and she faintly thought about how at the time she had laughed when four months earlier she'd thrown away the flier advertising for the new gym at the big mall down the road.

"Ow," Belle said, out of breath, "my thighs hurt," she pulled forward, and free of the delicious warmth and feel of him inside her, "don't you want to try this the more traditional way?" She asked, already settling on her hands and knees for something that probably wasn't far off from what the westies were up to two rooms off.

"I'm afraid that... does nothing for me."

"Oh, that's a shame," Belle said, glancing over her shoulder, and then she felt his palm on the small of her back, pushing her down on her belly.

"Could you please lie down, we could try something else," he said.

"Why but of course I could," Belle replied merrily, and lay down comfortably on her stomach, settling her hands just underneath her chin.

He lay on top of her next, keeping most of his weight on his hands, and Belle spread her legs a little wider apart to take him in.

"You like being close?" She asked, turning to glance over her shoulder.

"Mmhm," replied Mr Gold, and kissed her shoulder, and then her spine, as he pushed in again, not so slowly this time.

"This could work," Belle replied huskily, "I think I need a pillow though..."

"Oh, do you think this will do?" He asked, pulling closer a thick, floofed-up one, and Belle could barely contain her amusement, because of how bizarrely ordinary that had just sounded, like he'd asked if she preferred cream or milk with her coffee.

"Yes, let's try that one," she agreed. He withdrew from her, she lifted her hips up, he put the pillow there, she lay back down on her stomach, and rested comfortably again, with her hip slightly raised up now. He lay down against her again, and kissed her upper back softly, moving slowly as he parted away the masses of her hair covering her. Belle leaned up and back a little, and noticed he wasn¨t just quite as hard anymore as he'd been a moment ago.

"I'm sorry, my thoughts were distracted suddenly by laundry bills and dogs," he whispered.

"Oh, that's alright, do you want me to give you a hand?" Belle asked.

"No, it's fine. Are you comfortable now?"

"Very," she replied, but she was again impatient to have him inside her. And when he was ready now, this time, the bastard teased her by leaving it just almost there but not quite, pressing against her entrance but not coming in. Then he released his cock from his hand in favour of tracing her skin with his calloused palms, and the cock slid up and down between Belle's lips, the condom swimming in her wetness, while Mr Gold's roaming hands made their way up to squeeze her breasts one more time.

Belle pressed back against him, trying to angle herself so that he'd get inside already, but she had to wait until he was done touching her. She whimpered with frustration, not quite daring to just tell him to put it in before she lost her temper.

It was such a relief to have it inside this time, and Belle moaned with the pleasure of it.

"This is good," she panted, listening to the wet, fleshy sounds of their hips meeting next a little faster, the tip of Mr Gold's excellent cock meeting her deep inside in the perfect place, over and over again, until she couldn't take it anymore.

Belle shook, moaned out her orgasm against the bed, great relief overcoming her. She hadn't always been as straightforward about what she wanted, and when she had finally mustered the courage to do so the first time - the last time before this one in fact, he'd laughed at her and made fun of her for so adamantly voicing her opinion.

Belle sighed as he felt Mr Gold finish, and quickly withdraw from her then. He rolled off off her in favour of searching for a paper handkerchief from the inside of his bedside drawer to wrap the condom in. Belle cracked her eyes open partially and watched him move. He was no spring chicken, but he was pleasing to her eyes, very much so right then. Belle turned on her side and beckoned him to join her on the bed for a cuddle.

"So did I understand correctly, the next one is going to be two hours?" Belle asked drowsily, a mischievous glint in her eye, as she wrapped herself around him.

"Yes, this is correct," Mr Gold replied, and kissed her, holding her gently. It pleasant, gentle, languid kissing, and it would have been perfect if Belle hadn't felt the bed dip just behind her, and a cold, wet tongue lapping at her buttocks the next moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured this was due.
> 
> I wrote this in the middle of the night with insomnia so please don't hate me too bad for the million typos. Million billion.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, plot-like developments arise.

There was no time at all to bask in the afterglow of her first-not-self-induced-orgasm-in-years. There was a whinnying dog – Belle's own Whiskey – pattering in a formation of the number 8 on the floor by the bed, while Mr Gold's own dog, Flora, was entirely too interested in what Belle was doing in the bed. Mr Gold was already ordering Flora off the bed, and Belle was reaching for her haphazardly laid out clothes from the edges of the bed. It was sort of funny, she mused, how she felt as if she still were floating a little from what had just happened. Reality felt a little blurry, slightly reminiscent of the time when soon after her return from France and having had to deal with yet another round of her father's unfinished post mortem business, she'd gotten incredibly wasted at the end of it and had then gone to see the Marie Antoinette film with her cousin the next day. She'd had the sneaking suspicion the rest of the day that she was an 18th century maid.

Except that day she'd thrown up in her bed in the morning and had been horribly ashamed of herself. Things were quite the opposite now, she reflected, as she put her bra and knickers back on. “Whiskey wants to go outside for a wee,” Belle said, a little amused that this was the second thing she had to say after they'd had sex, “do you mind if I take him out in your back garden?”

As Belle was pulling a bra strap across her arm and up to her shoulder, Mr Gold's hands grabbed her waist lightly, and he briefly nuzzled his face against her neck and the hair that concealed the skin of it, maybe in order to briefly capture last of their moment in bed. “We might as well take them both out for a walk,” he said as he then withdrew.

The humans got dressed and all four of them went downstairs. Belle felt a little unsteady on her feet, a little tired, but that didn't keep her from putting on her overcoat and getting Whiskey's leash out. She'd been in the position of feeling far wearier or worse for wear, and still had managed to take the dog out, and when outside she had the opportunity to walk up the street of Mr Gold's house with their arms locked together, she felt very satisfied.

The dogs pattered in the snow, leaving tiny paw prints in it. All light posts had to be investigated, and the beginnings of each driveway leading up to a house.

It started snowing, and it wasn't any wind-tossed flurry of wet snow, but a calm descent of cold, powdery small flakes that wafted from the clouds with the grace of ballerinas. It was already fairly late in the suburbs and no cars passed them while they walked. The snow made everything quiet, and all around they were surrounded by houses topped with snow and their gardens and windows decorated with Christmas lights.

Belle said nothing, because feeling tired was on the top of her mind, whether she liked it or not, and she didn't want to talk about it any more, or make Mr Gold feel like he was inconveniencing her or boring her. She tried to convey her current state of mind instead by squeezing his arm tighter, or leaning towards him to share a kiss while the dogs stopped to sniff at things. It was a very comfortable and active sort of silence they shared, and she was very content to let it go on as she dreamed of how nice it would be when they returned inside and she could ask him to warm her up. Maybe by the fireplace, if not in the bed?

The beautiful winter wonderland fantasy bubble they were sharing burst abruptly when another dog walker passed them on the other side of the street. The Doberman Pinscher started barking, and was responded to by the angry, higher-pitched yapping of Whiskey, while Flora, who was usually more profoundly aggressive, ignored the two barking dogs and

“Good evening Mr Gold!” The owner of the Doberman, a woman with a large white and fluffy fur hat and matching white fur stole on her shoulders above her white, tailored wool coat, called at them across the street, betraying a thick, foreign accent as she did.

“Good evening Mrs Melnikova, I must ask you not to bring Igor across the street. Flora is in heat.”

“Heat?” She paused as if to translate the meaning in her head. “Oh, but shouldn't we have Henry and Flora make puppies!” She laughed, and Belle thought, what an unpleasant and mocking sound this Mrs Melnikova made. “What wonderful children they'd have!”

Belle felt Mr Gold take a step forward and tug her along. She went, a little uncertainly. “Good night, Mrs Melnikova,” he said just loudly enough to be sure the Doberman owner heard him. The dogs ceased to bark, a little later.

When they turned a corner, Belle glanced over her shoulder to make sure the white witch (why had she thought of that? Perhaps too many readings of Narnia) was gone, before she muttered “who was that?” out of curiosity.

“Someone I deal with professionally. On some occasions.”

“Oh, is she into antiquities? Buying or selling?”

Mr Gold didn't reply instantly. “She has a fairly large collection.”

Some part of Belle's brain realised that Mr Gold hadn't answered her question with that answer, but as she was finding it tiresome to phrase a follow-up question that wouldn't sound like the insane ramblings of a clingy and suddenly suspicious crazyperson, Whiskey pulled his leash and Belle settled for admonishing the dog instead. Besides, Mr Gold probably didn't like airing his business affairs to little bookworms he'd met a month ago. And the cold shoulder he'd given to the Slavic sounding lady, Belle thought she should hardly become jealous. Even if it seemed both her and Mrs Melnikova's dogs both were hot for Flora.

The beautiful sense of quiet peace was broken then, so Belle talked broadly about Christmases past during the rest of the walk, and Mr Gold listened to her, offering her his good-humoured and short commentary, as well as the presence of his arm around hers while they completed the short circuit around the neighbourhood and returned to his house.

 

They ended up spending two hours in front of the fire on Christmas Eve, the two hours Mr Gold had promised her. On Christmas Day, early in the morning, Belle left Mr Gold's house to go home, where she was to be retrieved by her cousin to go to the countryside to spend the rest of the day with her relations. Belle hadn't been in the car for longer than five minutes before her cousin Cecilie commented she had a glow about her, and asked if the Christmas season had gone well in the book shop.

Belle and Whiskey returned home on Boxing Day, and in the afternoon, as soon as she'd done hoisting her things back inside and wishing cousin Cissy a good drive back home, Belle raced back to Mr Gold's house and they were both naked in his bed in a matter of minutes after her arrival. When he drove her home that night and escorted her to the door, she pulled him inside and upstairs, and after his quips about the state of her housekeeping, they shared another set of wonderful orgasms on her dowdy couch, before he left. He had to, with a dog home to get to.

Life was good. He visited her again on Friday evening, and she returned to his house on Saturday, and stayed the night, and through Sunday. On Monday morning, after Mr Gold had given her and Whiskey a lift, and she walked about the shop haphazardly, Belle realised she'd blown off a few details about orders and phone calls to have been making. She was so busy then, she didn't even have time to make coffee, and decided she'd get some from across the street instead. The cheap stuff, from the kiosk.

Jeffrey grinned at her as soon as she entered. With his hair ruffled up and the smeared kohl, he reminded Belle of the singer of The Cure.“You know, I've seen that black Mercedes pass through here a lot recently, and the other day you were kissing with the driver near your window display, maybe you should draw blinds. Or are you trying a new way of attracting visitors to your shop?”

“Jeffrey, don't be crass. Coffee, please,” Belle said firmly, and eyed the Christmas chocolate bars that were now on -20% discount sale.

“Had a nice Christmas, I take it?” Jeffrey said, as he poured her coffee.

“Can't complain,” she replied, a bit more upbeat now.

“Would you like some more rubber then?”

“Speaking of complaints, how is your uncle?” Belle smiled sweetly, showing her teeth.

“Fine, fine. I'll try and behave,” Jeffrey responded, “no need to pull him into this. Can't help but be curious about it when my beautiful friend is getting out of fancy cars late at night. He looks like he's sixty, is he sixty?”

“Are you jealous?” Belle asked.

“A tiny bit,” Jeffrey said. “Is he rich? He looks rich.”

Belle shrugged. “He deals antiques. I suppose he's very good at it.”

“Ha. I thought antiquers all wear wool vests or cardigans, and drive tiny vans, because they can't afford two cars. Not suits and the Mercedes.”

Belle rolled her eyes at Jeffrey, pushing forward the money for the coffee. “Really? And what do you know about antique dealers?”

Jeffrey shrugged. “Well, for starters, my stepmom is one, and I seen dozens of them at antique fairs.”

That made Belle's track of thought stop. “Well, as far as I understand, Mr Gold hires a man named mister Dove to handle the lugging about of things. He is a little limited, with his leg and all.”

Jefferson gave back her change, and seemed a little out of humour. “I guess he probably has something to do with one of the big auction houses then, they can afford to keep staff.”

Belle hesitated, as she mixed milk into her coffee, and then asked.

“Do you know which auction houses they would be?”

“Bukowsky's, Hagel's, and Helander's,” Jefferson replied. “Not any Mr Gold's, that I can remember of.”

“He just moved in this area,” Belle said, and the memory of the odd Slavic woman they'd met during their outing a week before came back to her mind. A woman Mr Gold did business with, but wasn't in antiques. Did he have an antique shop at all, Belle wondered. And he spoke very little of his actual work, even though he knew a lot about the items in his home.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Belle said, and cradling the paper cup in her hand, went out, crossed the street, and decided it was time for a little bit of Internet searching.

The business in the shop was quiet while she sat on her stool, searching Melnikova's name, but came up with nothing, apart from a bunch of websites in Russian that didn't have much of a common thread, and a few hundred LinkedIn profiles. Then Belle glanced at a shelf inside her shop, where the Penguin paperback edition of War and Peace was. Russian ladies had different surnames than their husbands, didn't they? They added an additional letter A. So Mrs Melnikova's husband should be Mr Melnikov.

The first search she did with that surname on the local newspaper's website produced Belle the result of Boris Melnikov, who'd been recently acquitted on charges of blackmailing and embezzlement, and a number of other more minor infractions.

"Good God," Belle whispered the words out. Was Mr Gold working with the Eastern mafia?


End file.
